Kundalini Splendor

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Friday, December 17, 2004

Another Poem by Elizabeth Reninger 

Two of my favorite poets, both as yet essentially unpublished, live in Boulder. Here is another poem from Elizabeth Reninger, who, as always, captures the exquisite beauty of nature in her net of shimmering words. Ivan Granger, the other, wrote the poem which appeared recently on this site, as well as others from previous entries. He also is expert in the use of the short, pointed stanza. Each gives us sensuous joy as well as much to contemplate.


at this time
when the light is not yet
useful, merely

when a bright
honey pours
nectar over a curved
horizon, into a nameless

chalice, and your vision
wakes also, as if
to meet it, touching

when for an endless
moment all
colors are

color a shimmering
fabric an infinite
wisdom this

of pure love, so suddenly

your own. . .

copyright, Elizabeth Reninger

Thursday, December 16, 2004

That Fervent Murmur 

That Fervent Murmur

Duality/ non-duality.
Tell me,
can you draw a line around God?

Take your measuring stick
and find
where one ends,
the other begins?

Lie down with your
lover in your ear.
Where is that voice
coming from?
That fervent murmur.

if it makes your heart go faster,
do you really want to know?

copyright, Dorothy Walters

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

A Poem by Ivan Granger 

Twelve Ways to Lose Your Head on Maui
Piercing the clouds, fingers
of sunlight caress the valley floor.
The Iao Needle stands, its immense
quiet crushing.

Staring blindly out the window,
no work getting done –
a stolen moment when silence
has stolen me.

Reading, I shiver in the Upcountry chill.
Already old in the new year, the island
and I shiver
and grow still.

Baldwin Avenue meandering to Paia
beneath an empty sky,
cane fields
surge in the sun.

At the altar: Breath
aglow in my throat.
Golden treacle pools
upon my heart.

The path to Twin Falls, dusty
between my toes. Ginger points
to the upper pool. Fallen guavas
float downstream.

Hana Highway, pausing
at each bridge to let traffic pass.
Around the bend –
endless ocean.

Fasting on Saturday –
empty stomach, empty head.
Time spreads
into stillness.

Cinnamon-red and blue, a pheasant stares
through the window. Michele
calls me, whisper. I see them
see each other.

In the cave among the eucalyptus
up Alae Road – a fine seat
for a city boy
playing sadhu.

In bursts of wingbeats
a cardinal darts by. The red
bird finds himself lost
among the red proteas.

The sun setting beyond
Ma’alaea Harbor. The golden ocean,
I see, drinks the tired eye in.
I am gone.

copyright, Ivan Granger

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

In This Very Spot 

In this Very Spot

Where, I ask you,
is the Formula
for Everything?
The one we have been searching for
so long in vain?

Some say it is hidden
in the spiraling foam
of the ocean’s dark cave,
its turbulent groans.

Some say it is nailed to the razored crest
of the unscalable
the one often pictured
in paintings and bronze,
where so many have fallen.

Others claim it is carried in the beak
of the bird of wild plumage,
green and gold flashing
as it ascends into light.

If you are looking for it,
pause now.
Cease gazing so frantically
everywhere all around.
Throw away your map,
forget your guide.

It is neither to right
nor left,
not up
nor down.
It is here,
just here,
in this very spot
where you stand,
waiting for you to look within, and see.

copyright, Dorothy Walters
December 14, 2004

Monday, December 13, 2004

The Lovers 

Good News

Good news, darlings!

You do not have to be
or beautiful

for god to make love
to you.

He will come to your chamber secretly,
while you are sleeping,
hold you in his arms,
kiss your eyes awake
o, so tenderly.

And if you prefer him to come
as a woman,
all you have to do
is ask.

Names don’t matter,
only the beauty
of the light.

What God Wants

Are you afraid
for god to
be your lover?

Let him come near,
stroke your cheek
with his hand,
nuzzle your nape,
trace the whorls of your ear
with his tongue.

If she kisses you,
don’t run away.

What she wants from you
is only the thing
you have always wanted,
searched for all
of you life.

What Is It?

Not a sexual explosion
rocking the flesh.

Nor a spasm of longing
triggering the blood.

More like perfume
suffusing a room
filled with hyacinths.

Or the barely heard sound
of a far away gong
resonating all your bones
to bliss.

copyright, Dorothy Walters
December 13, 2004

Saturday, December 11, 2004

In the Hawk's Eye 

In the Hawk’s Eye

God, I think,
is both fluidity
and fixation,
still point and moving wheel.
Particle and wave,
as they name it today.

Like that giant hawk we saw
high above the ocean’s cliff,
riding the wind, hanging so still
we thought it was a toy,
mechanical design
made to astonish and amuse
until we noticed
its relentless gaze
that spared nothing below
and then it took off
with a determined swoop
heading out over the waters
to the horizon’s fold.

Likewise, half of god
dances, dances,
keeping the vast currents
of the world alive,
while the immutable other
rests at ease
an abstracted principle
at the midpoint of all,
observer and thing seen,
seeker and goal,
reflecting each movement
in his unwavering eye.

copyright, Dorothy Walters

Friday, December 10, 2004

Beautiful poem from Elizabeth Reninger 

Late Autumn

as if drawing his
lost leaves back
up to naked

the maple's quiet
silhouette pulls orange
silk from a waking

pauses here
with you on the cusp
of dawn then with a single
cardinal bursts

into a fire of song . . .

copyright, Elizabeth Reninger

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

What Is a Blessing? 

Anything that has brought a smile to your lips, joy to your heart, or a lightness to your step is a blessing.

Anything that has made your life more comfortable, has lightened your burden, or has brought warmth to your home is a blessing.

Anything that has supported your body, increased your endurance, or opened your heart is a blessing.

Anything that has made you look deeper, has expanded your understanding, or has increased your compassion is a blessing.

Anything that has tested your strength, fortified your commitment, or forced you to grow is a blessing.

Anything that has reminded you of how precious life is and taught you to treasure your Relations is a blessing.

Jamie Sands

copyright, Jamie Sands

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Three Poems after Rampasad 

Advice to Seekers

Fling away
all ritual and sacrifice.

Scorn pilgrimage and caste.

Only in the heart
does the true altar stand.

Enter the secret cave,
my darling,
and bow down
before eternity.

A Difficult Passage

Some days
the voice says,
"Only the pain is real."

On others
it whispers,

"Let my arms hold you,
lift you onto this waiting tide.
Together we will be swept out to sea,
know storms, shipwrecks,
drown many time over,
till at last we are flung
onto the shore
where all true lovers dwell."

What Would We Not Do?

If Shiva himself
plays dead
just to feel the
Mother’s feet
trample across his breast,
what would we not do
for a single moment
of such holy touch?

copyright, Dorothy Walters

Monday, December 06, 2004

Summoned by this Music 

I ask if you are
there, and quickly,
your unmistakable answer.

Shiva of the
flaming head—
high cheeks blazing—
wanting me
as I yearn for you.

My prayer,
as always—
Can I hold this love?

A bow,
a few simple moves,
everything opening,
rose at midnight.

copyright, Dorothy Walters

Saturday, December 04, 2004

The Ways of Truth and Love 

When I despair, I remember that all through history
the ways of truth and love have always won.
There have been tyrants, and murderers,
and for a time they can seem invincible,
but in the end they always fall.

Think of it – always.

Mahatma Gandhi.

Friday, December 03, 2004

In Angelic Joy 

The Sea Gulls

Huddled in clusters
along the small lake’s shore,
they rose and took flight
like a white rose opening
suddenly in air;
together they swooped over,
then, closing again,
became a ball of light
which exploded
and fell earthward
on the distant rim,
a fireworks shattering
in phosphorescent glee,
a cascade of luminous, angelic joy.

copyright, Dorothy Walters

Thursday, December 02, 2004

The Things of This World 

Richard Wilbur, one of the major poets of our time, has a beautiful poem which begins with a man waking up, as "Love Calls Us to the Things of this World." Sometimes, we get so involved in the ethereal level that we forget about those specifics which tie us to material reality. We lose touch with the felt and seen and utterly tangible items which form our literal surroundings.

Recently, I spent a morning in Golden Gate Park, and took some time just trying to be aware of what was before me. Here are some of the things I noted:

The unexamined calligraphy of the pine needles flung over the pavement of the path.

The silken sheen of the newly erupted grass.

A lime green ebullience, color of renewal.

Two martial arts practitioners—he is the pupil, hesitant sword in hand, she is the teacher confidently flourishing a scarf-topped fan, gray haired master showing the way.

A small mechanical toy boat, carving the lake into undulant segments as it buzzes insistently here and there.

Suddenly, a swath of exploding diamonds moves across the lake from right to left—like an alien life form, limbless, shapeless, disjointed, luminous particles moving together in telepathic union toward some consensual destination.

(And then a thought popped in):

When all else fails, when external images fade, whenever physical agility is itself in question, there is still language, endless refuge and consolation. As long as we can say, we are alive, abiding in some curious mid-region between thing and symbol.

It is now five past twelve and suddenly the lake is still. The buzz saw voice of the battery-powered toy boat is silent, the toy taken away, the gulls sit in quiet meditation around the perimeter of the lake. The swordsman and his female instructor, as well as the strollers, the mothers with their baby carriages—all have vanished. There is an almost alarming calm, an eerie silence, as if news of a calamity had spread and everyone had fled for safety. Only one elderly walker remains. He pauses quietly, peers over into the water, and then softly resumes his slow perambulation.

Where has everyone gone?

Perhaps they are all still here, but invisible, and I have died, unaware, in this seemingly deserted place.

Then, later, I wrote this poem:

Gazing at the Soccer Field below:
Golden Gate Park on Saturday Morning

What I have here at this moment
is neither an ocean
nor a pond
but a lake made of grass.

A bowl of green,
silky translucence
hue fresh as a sweet lime
not yet fallen
from the tree
in the season’s joy.

The surface of this field
is like a paper lantern
lit from within,
a spreading radiance
the white and gold figures
etched from its blaze.

As I peer down,
these distant shapes
kick and scramble,
scurry and glide
across the glistening sheen
as somewhere,
in the sudden breeze,
a lantern sways and turns,
bobs and swirls
in the constant, spreading light.

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